The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald is a book I have long felt I know more or less what it is about despite never actually having opened it. In this case the omission was a bit embarrassing as the book in question has been quietly abandoned on my To Be Read shelf for years despite being neither long nor particularly heavy.
However, during a recent travel I decided only to bring books lingering on my TBR shelf and finally got started. (Well, the truth is that I first bought new books by Agatha Christie, Margery Allingham and Anne Fadiman, read those and then, when I was once more out of fresh reading material, started on my TBR books). Having once started on The Great Gatsby I found it a smooth, enjoyable read. I really don’t know why it took me so long.
The image I had of The Great Gatsby included a love story set against a backdrop of extravagant nightly garden parties during the 1920s. I wasn’t exactly wrong but after actually reading it the image I was left with was rather of the loneliness and futility hidden behind Gatsby’s shining dream. Perhaps not a new favourite but nevertheless a beautifully written novel which did not deserve to linger forgotten on my shelf.
The Great Gatsby was one of the novels on my Classics Club reading list.